Seeing Things
by ClaireWrite
Summary: Jack, Ralph and the other survivors from the island decide to return to their childhood hell on a haunting date - the twentieth anniversary of Piggy's death.


Chapter one

A Dream and an Idea

_Piggy looks at me with a smile on his face, his arms wide. _

_ "Hullo, Ralph! It's been a long time, old friend!" I nod._

_ "Yeah, I guess so." _

_ "Twenty years, Ralph."_

_ "Yeah. And?"_

_ "You've missed me, haven't you?" Piggy looks worried._

_ "Yeah, Piggy. I've missed you. And Si-" My voice cracks._

_ "Simon?" Piggy finishes. I nod._

_ "Yeah. Simon." _

_ "He's here, too." _

_ "Really?"_

_ "Yeah. We live on castle rock now, Ralph. It's real good without Jack."_

_ "What's the Island like?"_

_ "Just like when you left, Ralph. So am I. And Simon. And the littlun with the mark on his face, you remember. From the fire."_

_ "Yeah. That guy. What's his name?" Piggy shrugs._

_ "Dunno. He don't talk to us. Just skitters around crying about snakes." I cringe. We never talked about snakes, Piggy and I. Not since what happened. "Sorry." Piggy remembers, and sighs. "We've missed you, Ralph."_

_ "I'm glad. I've missed you, too. I'm married now, Piggy. She's a great girl. Her name's Mary. She was the daughter of the counselor. Jack's and mine."_

_ "That's splendid, old chap. Is she pretty?" I smile, and nod._

_ "Very beautiful. Like... Like Marilyn Monroe, but brunette."_

_ "Who?"_

_ "Oh, yeah, you don't know who she is, do you."_

_ "No, I don't, my friend." Piggy looks suddenly incredibly sad. Then Simon appears, and the kid with the mark, and the headless pig, and the dead man Simon was telling us about when we killed him. They float around Piggy in a circle, but Piggy doesn't seem to notice._

_ "You'll be joining us soon, Ralph. Very, very soon." It gets dark all of the sudden, and I feel warm for some reason. _

_ "Very soon!" The other figures echo, overlapping with each other to form a cacophony from which I can't distinguish a single word. Piggy edges towards the cliff.  
"No, Piggy, don't!" I shout, but he shakes his head._

_ "It's the only way, Ralph." He sounds far away. I shake my head, and try to reach him, but I'm locked in place. Piggy jumps, and his head splits on the rocks. _

I scream, sitting up in bed. My wife, Mary, wakes up.

"Nightmares again, Ralph?"

I nod. "It's been twenty years. I still can't get him out of my head."

She puts an arm around me."Of course not, dear. He was your closest friend. I never assumed you'd forget Piggy."

"God, we never even learned his real name. Not until his funeral. David. David Henford." I pause. "He didn't look like a David. Looked more like a..." The curtain flickers in my brain, and I can't remember what I was going to say.

"Like a Piggy?" Mary prompts, and I laugh a little.

"Yeah. He always looked like a Piggy. I guess that's why the bullies called him that. In school, I mean. And on the island." I lean back, my hands intertwined behind my head.

"God, we were such _bullies._ Especially Jack and I. Especially when we were together. We wanted to impress each other, I guess. I just wish I could go back, and stop it all from happening, Mary!" Mary glances at me.

"Stop what?"

"The entire thing. The crash, everything."

She rolls over and looks at me. "Honey, you can't have stopped the war."

I roll towards her. "Maybe I could have, though! If I could go back!" She puts her hand on my arm.

"Darling. You can't go back. It's impossible."

"The titanic wasn't supposed to be able to sink."

"That was a _boat._ This is the fourth _dimension._ You can't just... go back. They could make another titanic, they already have. Bigger boats, better boats. Stronger boats. You can't remake _time_. I'm sorry, but there it is." I sigh.

"I'm sorry, Mary. It just seems so... doable. Like if I just said a magic word, or stood in a magic circle, I could go back, and I could fix things. People didn't used to think people could fly. Now we can. Look at airplanes. It used to be absurd to think of traveling a hundred miles from your home. Now look at us. We flew four thousand miles, across the _ocean_, and landed in a foreign country. And it only took us forty hours, or so. Based on the points of view of people, say, a thousand years ago, or even less, we are doing the impossible. Maybe someday-" I'm cut off by the ring of the telephone.

"I'll get it." I say, pushing the blankets off. I cross to the telephone in my shorts and answer it. "Hello?"

"Hullo, Ralph." I grip the phone

"Jack?"

"Yes, it's me, old boy. Gosh, you sound different. You've only lived in America for what, three years? You already sound like a Yankee. You need to come back, visit me and mine sometime."

"You and... yours?" I'm confused, but then the curtain flickers again and I remember. "Oh, right, Cathy and Joe."

"And Becky. She'd be furious if she thought you'd forgotten her."

"Right, Rebecca. Yeah. Uh, listen, mate, it's five in the morning here..."

"Oh, bloody hell. It's nine at night here. Very sorry, mate."

"It's okay. I have to get up for work in twenty minutes, anyway. Might as well be talking to an old..." I'm unsure what to call Jack. "friend." I finish lamely.

"You got a job?"

"Yeah, I work at a chip shop around the corner."

"That's blooming great, Ralph! Send the missus the recipe sometime! She sure could use it." I chuckled.

"I doubt master Cray would be very enthusiastic if I shared his 'top secret recipe' with a mysterious English politician. Though I suspect it's just a seasonings packet from the corner shop mixed with lots and lots of flour. Fish is the blandest in the world, mate." Jack laughs.

"See, chap? Five minutes on the tel with me is more influential than three years in America! You're already talking like one of us again!"

"Never really stopped, old fellow." He laughs, but I can kind of tell it's forced.

"Listen, Ralph," he sighs. "I just... I wanted to apologize."

"For what?"

"For everything. For Piggy, for Simon. Oh, Simon. The truth is, Ralph, if you want to hear it, that I've never been the same since the Island." Honestly, that makes me kind of mad.

"Well, yeah. Neither have the rest of us, Jack, believe me. That was twenty years ago, though. Why bring it up now?"

"I know that it was twenty years ago. But, Ralph, I killed Simon. I'm the one who caused all the trouble in the first place. Coming in with my stupid choir and my nose in the air. It was my _fault._ Mine!" I'm wary, because I know that Jack only gets like this when he wants something from me.

"Jack, I know you feel bad. Can we please get to the point here?" There's silence on the other line. Finally, he breaks it.

"Okay. Look, Ralph, I haven't seen you in seventeen years. We haven't seen any of the boys in fifteen, at least. I think we should have a reunion, of sorts."

"What?"

"You, me, Roger, Bill, everybody! Johnny, Sam, Eric. Did you hear they married twin girls, by the way?"

"No, I hadn't. Jack, it's a decent idea, but it's impossible. How would we? None of us know the same places, we might not even recognize each other. Where could we even meet? We live on separate continents now." Jack sighs.

"It's quite simple, really. I think we should go back to the island."

Chapter two

Back to the Island

"Back to the Island?" I ask incredulously. "Back to that... nightmare? Back to all those memories? Back to all the...?" I leave the question hanging, but I'm thinking, _all the bodies? That even though we can't see, we all know are out there? All the skeletons in all the closets that we managed to leave behind with Piggy? And Simon? _Jack groans.

"Bloody hell, mate. I knew you wouldn't like it, but I had no idea you'd take it like _this_. It's just a vacation, Ralph. It's not like I'm suggesting we sacrifice our first-born sons on an altar bearing the skulls of the pigs we killed." It's my turn to groan.

"Jack, I know that. If you were suggesting _anything _that involved murder I would personally check you in to prison. But... don't you get it, Jack? We lost so _much_ on that island. I don't just mean Piggy and Simon and the kid with the mark on his face. I mean our innocence, and a good chunk of our childhood, and maybe a bit of our sanity. Jack, we could all be in prison right now, we could all be murderers. And you want to go back to where all that happened? You want to go _relive _that? You want to take your kids to Castle Rock, show them the thicket that you burned to try and smoke me out so you could chase and kill me? You want to eat a picnic on the red square rock where the... the... the _stuff_ came out of Piggy's head as he twitched and _died_? Because of what you and I _did_? Because of some ridiculous _politics? _You want to show the kids where Simon died? Where we killed him? Sacrificed him to our fears? You want to put our wives and your children through a reenactment of what happened there? You want to scar your kids the way _we _were scarred when we were their age? Because I don't."

"Ralph-" Jack protested, and I look up, and see my wife sitting on our bed, the blanket in her mouth, tears streaming down her face, which is blotchy and red.

"Look, Jack, I have to go. I don't think going back to the island is a good idea. Call me at a _reasonable _hour next time, and maybe I'll be more _reasonable._ All right? All right. Goodbye, Jack." Without waiting for a word from him, I slam the phone down, and slide onto the bed next to Mary.

"What's wrong?" I ask her, putting my arm around her shoulders.

"Oh, Ralph," she buries her head in my chest. "It's nothing, really, it's just that... when things are going nice, like they were just now, sometimes I forget that the things that happened to you... I forget they even _happened_, Ralph." I snort.

"God, I wish I could forget." She puts her head on my shoulder and intertwines her hand with mine.

"I'm sorry, Ralph. I don't _forget_, it's just like I can... put them out of mind, somehow. But when you talk to Jack, or Roger, or when you... when you get a spell, it brings them to the front of my mind, and it drives me nuts!"

"I know what you mean." I sigh, and she nods.

"It's like... what happened to you seems like something that should only happen in books, or in movies. In fiction. It doesn't seem like something that should be a part of somebody's everyday life. I mean, you lived like savages for a year and a half, and everybody thought you were _dead_, and you were... killing boys, and..." I turn to face her.

"Yeah, Mary. Trust me, I know. And don't make me sound like a serial killer. We all thought it was just a big... just a game, until Simon..." I trail off, leaving the _tick, tock _of the alarm clock to fill the silence. After a while, I realize Mary has fallen asleep against my shoulder. At the same time, I realize that I'm going to be late for work if I don't hurry up. I slide out from beneath Mary, leaving her on her side on her favorite lavender sheets. I shrug off my ratty old T-shirt that I sleep in and pull on my 'Francisco's famous fried fish!' polo (which is possibly the tackiest shirt and slogan ever worn by man), and a pair of jeans. As I head for the door, I cast one look back over my shoulder. Mary is still asleep, but her mouth is open, like a flower about to bloom, and she looks so tranquil, so peaceful, that I walk across the room to her side of the bed and kiss her before leaving the apartment. The metal stairs down to the exit of the apartment building are slick with water, and it's raining out, so I pull the collar of my jacket up to my ears as I trudge down the street.

The fish shop is about half a mile from my house, at the very end of its block, with seating that is over the ocean on a balcony. It is painted a deep maroon that is so close to the color of blood that my stomach turns every time I walk through the door. The smell hits me as soon as I walk into the shop; the overwhelmingly strong scent of oil, fish, and garlic. My first day on the job, I vomited from the smell, and then again for the feel of raw fish in my hands that was so like that of freshly killed pig that I believed I could hear the hunting dance that killed Simon.  
My boss jumps on me as soon as I shed my coat and don my apron.

"You're almost late again, Ralph. You've got to hurry up, maybe be a bit _early _sometimes, if it wouldn't hurt you?" I nod.

"I'm really sorry, chief. I just... I had a really stressful phone call this morning. From Jack, in England." The Chief's face softens a bit. I guess his second cousin's best friend's uncle's mom's brother-in-law was on the liner that picked us up off the island, or something like that, so he "understands." It's so weird how people say they "understand" when, as far as I know, they've never a) killed anybody b) seen their best friend killed before their eyes or c) been stuck in the middle of nowhere for over a year and a half, living off of nothing but pigs and fruit. The boss drags me out of my thoughts.

"Oh. Okay. Everything okay over there?"

"Uh... yeah. I think so."

"How are your parents?" I flush. I forgot to ask Jack about my mom and dad.

"They're fine, sir." _I think._ I mentally add.

"Tell ya what, business is going to be slow today anyways, since it's raining, and you've been here two days you weren't supposed to this month, so how about I give you today off?" The words are so shocking, coming from the stern Chief, that I just nod and stutter,

"Th-Thank you, sir!"

"Cold getting to you already? He asks, in response to the stammering. "Get on home, boy! Enjoy your life!" I nod and smile, and duck back out the door. The first two lungfuls of air outside the chip shop always seem so pure and so clear that, even in midsummer, it feels like you could be out in the country somewhere. I pause to enjoy breathing without feeling like I'm getting suffocated by oil molecules for a bit longer than usual today, before sprinting off home.

"I'm home!" I yell cheerily as I open the apartment door. Mary walks out of the kitchenette, a spatula in her hand.

"Oh, hey, babe. What happened?" she looks worried, and I hesitate.

"The Chief was feeling merciful today, I guess. What's wrong?" She shrugs.

"Jack called again, after you left."

"Ah. Not to apologize, I imagine?"

"No. To say that he and the other boys are taking their kids to the island with or without us." I can tell that's not all, and I tell her so. "Okay," she says "The resort we were going to? For my birthday?" I nod. "They called, too."

"Oh." I say. "And?"

"And," she pauses. "They overbooked. We were the cheaper package, they let us go. We can't go there." I swallow and feel a lump building in my throat.

"But... your vacation! Your birthday trip!" She crosses the room and puts her arms around me, and I rest my chin on top of her curly brown hair. "I'm so sorry." I whisper, kissing her head.

"It's... okay. It really is. I just..." she steps back. "Ralph, I was thinking. Why don't we just... go?" I am befuddled.

"Go... where?"

"The island." she says, as calm as a bomber pilot dropping his payload on London. I open my mouth to speak, but Mary puts her index finger on my mouth. "I know you hate the idea, and I know a lot of... bad stuff happened there. But it's a part of what made you who you are, so it can't be _that _bad. Can it?" I nod. _God, she just doesn't _get_ it!_ I think.

"Yes." I say. "Yes, it can be that bad. Mary-" I choke on my words. "Mary, I don't_ want _to go back to that place. That place was my... my hell. It wasn't what made me who I am. I had to overcome everything that that island put in me, everything it made me think, everything it made me feel, I had to get back everything that it made me let go of. Mary, we were _savages_! And we were _proud_ of it! We were so damn happy when we killed that pig, for a few moments after we... after Simon... after _that_, for just a couple of beats, we were happy. I _almost died_ on that island because my best friend got power-hungry and wanted me eliminated. I was _this close _to _dying_ on that island." I hold up two fingers with about a millimeter of space between them. "So yes, it can be that bad. And no, I can't go back, Mary." She bites her bottom lip and nods, like she knew this is what I was going to say.

"Okay." she says. "Okay, then. We don't have to go to the island. We can... hang out on the beach, or something, instead." She turns to go, and I don't know what it is, maybe the slumped, defeated position of her shoulders, or the resignation of her hand brushing the doorway, but something in her makes me think again.

"Mary..." I stand, preparing to walk after her, but she turns around, and my hand lands on her shoulder. "Mary, look, I am _not happy_ about this. But, for your sake, maybe you're right, okay? Maybe we should... go back. It might be good for me to face my demons." She smiles, and puts her arms around my shoulders. I sigh, letting myself fall in to her embrace, and the phone rings. I groan, trudge into the kitchen, and grab the phone off its cradle.

"Hello?"

"Hey, Ralph!" It's Jack again. "Look, I was just hoping maybe you'd thought about the whole island thing." He's silent, and I realize he expects me to say something.

"Yeah. Look, Jack, I've decided – we've decided – that we can go with you. To the island."

"Seriously?" I nod, but it occurs to me that he can't see me.

"Uh, yeah." I say, lamely.

"That's ruddy excellent, mate! Look, now, we can't fly over there, so we'll have to go by boat, which may take a while, even with the faster boats. Fortunately I got to keep the map with our island on it. Or maybe I stole it." I laugh.

"This is crazy, you know that, right?"

"Well, yeah! We're going to float a hundred miles in a newfangled piece of metal to a hell we haven't been to in twenty years, and we're taking our wives and children. It could only get more ridiculous if we were planning on living on the island!" I groan.

"Don't even _mention_ that, Jack, please. I don't want the wife getting any ideas!" I wink at Mary and laugh for Jack.

"Well, right, then mate. I've talked to the other boys, you know, Roger and them, and we've decided we'll sail in three weeks. On the eighteenth. Is that all right with you and the missus?" Mary can hear Jack's voice, and she nods when I look at her.

"Uh, yeah, should be." I expect Jack to say something, but he's silent. After a couple of beats, he speaks again.

"All right. That should get us there on the twenty-second. I figured out something interesting, Ralph."

"What's that?"  
"That day... the twenty-second, that's the day..." He pauses, and I wait, my anxiety growing by the second. Finally he continues. "That's the day Piggy died."


End file.
